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This is what my father-in-law told me happened to him when he was boy living in on Sixth Avneue, Conshohocken, a small town outside of Philadelphia: “When I asked my father for a dime, he picked me up and heaved me against the wall.”
His father worked hard in a cement factory, and at other menial jobs for long hours in the cold, sometimes away from home for periods of time. An Italinan immigrant, he, like so many others lie him, left what was probably a rural poor village with no education, skills or prospects for the future. He came with a wife Maria and their one child at the time in1903. The family grew each year quickly include eight other children. Their small back yard was a garden of tomatoes, peppers, zucchini, fruit and herbs, and grapevines to make wine--all to sustain them through the winters.
There was always dinner on the table when the man of the house came home and took his rightful place as lord and master of his domain. However meager, inadequate the "kingdom" might have been, it was likely the only place he could command respect and deference, while women took their designated places caring for as many children as were conceived and everything else involved in managing a household.
For immigrant families all over America, their homeland would became a misty but precious memory in the new world without the familiarity and warmth of land and language, the villages and an extended family for support. In the old world at least there were the beauty of landscape, the blood ties, evenings with friends before a hearth fire and maybe there was a song to comfort, temper and deepen a young soul. While here in America there may have been other opportunities, the comforts were few. Of course, neighborhoods then tended to be of one or another ethnic group around a parish church, which allowed the immigrant residents to gather togehter for some for cultural and social customs and traditions.
For immigrant families all over America, their homeland would became a misty but precious memory in the new world without the familiarity and warmth of land and language, the villages and an extended family for support. In the old world at least there were the beauty of landscape, the blood ties, evenings with friends before a hearth fire and maybe there was a song to comfort, temper and deepen a young soul. While here in America there may have been other opportunities, the comforts were few. Of course, neighborhoods then tended to be of one or another ethnic group around a parish church, which allowed the immigrant residents to gather togehter for some for cultural and social customs and traditions.
My father-in-law was the youngest of the nine brothers and sisters. I never heard him speak a word against his father, whom he obviously respected (but maybe also feared as a child?). Antonio DiGuielermo was a proud, hard-working, man who had lived his short life as best he could, fulfilling his responsibility to provide the bare necessities for his family after arriving in a foreign land to start over. Maybe that is all that this father, uneducated and unskilled, living day to day could manage in his life, if he was lucky.
Considering the hardships involved, providing the necessities was a deed in itself. He and others had to move swiftly, unawares, from childhood to adulthood, sometimes without even the bare of necessities—let alone the reflection for self-awareness and empath. He must have struggled mightily to bring those necessities to his own family.
Everyone else assumed their parts, as well, some no less challenging then the father's role. The wife's: to bear children, work day and night to care for and feed them; wash and sew clothes by hand; keep the house in order; tend the garden, put up harvest for winter; and wait on the father when he was home. There may not have been much understanding at that time that children are individuals with their own experiences, minds, desires, hopes and potential. Rather, they were hungry mouths to feed and sturdy bodies to put to use--and they were to be "seen and not heard."
These are the impressions I had from the stories my father-in-law told over and again through the years, some as subconscious burdens, no doubt, to bear through a lifetime. And I heard no other stories to displace the ones of a stern, unforgiving father, with not a glimmer of warmth (if there was time for such). I had, however, heard my father-in-law's fond memories about his mother, who lived into her 90's. I was fortunate to have met her when I came into the family. Still, there was an unspoken sense that any transgression on the father's part toward his wife or children could be rationalized in the context of the hardships of his and maybe existence in general.
Decades after the father man had crossed the threshold from earthly trials, probably inhis 50's to whatever lay beyond, my husband and I took my father-in-law, already in his later years, along with Rosie, one of his widowed sisters, to visit Mary, the oldest living sister and her husband Lou. There was a warm welcome, a huge meal, and later time to sit around the table to reminisce with laughter and tears. The topic turned from childhood memories of their neighborhood, to long-ago holidays spent all together at the small row home on Sixth Avenue, to their early married years with young children Then, inevitably, the conversation turned to Carmen, the youngest brother who had died at age sixteen.
There are always memories or stories repeated in families, some happy, some tragic, which have a way of casting a certain mood that can fills the inner and outer spaces of a gathering. This was such a one. I had heard about Carmen many times, but now I heard about him from Rosie, who revealed her own experienc of being a little girl in that house. Perhaps it was the first time her brother and sister heard about her recollections. Rosie was a sweet, delicate women, almost bird-like in her movements and child-like in her demeanor and speech—an open, generous soul. She became somber as she remembered the events surrounding Carmen's death.
One day, over 60 years ago, she was getting ready for school. It was a bitterly cold morning, and the innocent, young girl was doing what girls do joyfully, combing her hair and singing a song. Her father stormed in and shoved her out of the bathroom. Carmen was still asleep, having been ill the night before. She remembered that her father shook him awake and dragged him out of bed despite his illness, so he wouldn't be late to walk the distance to the dairy farm, where he would work outside all day.
That afternoon, walking home from school, Rosie said she heard a voice, “Who do you want to lose, your father or your brother?” As she got to this part of the tale, her face transformed into that of a grieving madonna, with confusion and pain she must have felt at that very moment so long ago. She said she the thought, and said outloud to us, in her characteristic way, “Ooo, I can’t choose between Pop and Carmen.'”
She didn’t have to.
When she got home, she found that Carmen had died that day (later they found of pneumonia). Rosie didn't say what that questioning voice she heard may have been: her conscience, her fears, her wishes to have family harmony, ESP, or even the prophetic voice of God. She just told the story, and we listened. I was stunned, trying to comprehend the effects of on the rest of the family, carried through a lifetime. Nothing was said in response to Rosie’s story that day about questioning voice. There was a silent moment when we all took in what she had shared and also to honor the memory of their lost brother. Then the mood, meaning and images evoked by Rosie slowly faded.
I had the sense that my father-in-law and the others had to ignore, at least outwardly, the implication that their father was as cruel as the facts of Rosie's story confirmed, and that his sister, as well as the other siblings may have been as deeply affected by their childhoods and the loss of a brother that could have been avoided.
What did it mean, I wondered, that the family never openly spoke to each other about the relationship of Carmen’s death to his having been forced to work on that bitter cold, last day of his young life. At the least, it meant that no blame was openly attributed in order to preserve the family mythology and to have avoided the open reckoning of it.
Whatever may have transpired after Carmen's death, I have no knowledge of, but I do know that people, in general often do not question the what, how and why of their lives (including myself) to avoid the pain, and maybe it is better that way in some cases. Still, I can only hope that there was also tenderness, love, and yes, the pain of remorse felt in the heart of the father, head of the household on Sixth Avenue— if not seen by others. Even if only brief moments of doubt before sleep, or upon waking--the way a small shaft of light and warmth edges its way into a dark room through a door left slightly ajar.
Considering the hardships involved, providing the necessities was a deed in itself. He and others had to move swiftly, unawares, from childhood to adulthood, sometimes without even the bare of necessities—let alone the reflection for self-awareness and empath. He must have struggled mightily to bring those necessities to his own family.
Everyone else assumed their parts, as well, some no less challenging then the father's role. The wife's: to bear children, work day and night to care for and feed them; wash and sew clothes by hand; keep the house in order; tend the garden, put up harvest for winter; and wait on the father when he was home. There may not have been much understanding at that time that children are individuals with their own experiences, minds, desires, hopes and potential. Rather, they were hungry mouths to feed and sturdy bodies to put to use--and they were to be "seen and not heard."
These are the impressions I had from the stories my father-in-law told over and again through the years, some as subconscious burdens, no doubt, to bear through a lifetime. And I heard no other stories to displace the ones of a stern, unforgiving father, with not a glimmer of warmth (if there was time for such). I had, however, heard my father-in-law's fond memories about his mother, who lived into her 90's. I was fortunate to have met her when I came into the family. Still, there was an unspoken sense that any transgression on the father's part toward his wife or children could be rationalized in the context of the hardships of his and maybe existence in general.
Decades after the father man had crossed the threshold from earthly trials, probably inhis 50's to whatever lay beyond, my husband and I took my father-in-law, already in his later years, along with Rosie, one of his widowed sisters, to visit Mary, the oldest living sister and her husband Lou. There was a warm welcome, a huge meal, and later time to sit around the table to reminisce with laughter and tears. The topic turned from childhood memories of their neighborhood, to long-ago holidays spent all together at the small row home on Sixth Avenue, to their early married years with young children Then, inevitably, the conversation turned to Carmen, the youngest brother who had died at age sixteen.
There are always memories or stories repeated in families, some happy, some tragic, which have a way of casting a certain mood that can fills the inner and outer spaces of a gathering. This was such a one. I had heard about Carmen many times, but now I heard about him from Rosie, who revealed her own experienc of being a little girl in that house. Perhaps it was the first time her brother and sister heard about her recollections. Rosie was a sweet, delicate women, almost bird-like in her movements and child-like in her demeanor and speech—an open, generous soul. She became somber as she remembered the events surrounding Carmen's death.
One day, over 60 years ago, she was getting ready for school. It was a bitterly cold morning, and the innocent, young girl was doing what girls do joyfully, combing her hair and singing a song. Her father stormed in and shoved her out of the bathroom. Carmen was still asleep, having been ill the night before. She remembered that her father shook him awake and dragged him out of bed despite his illness, so he wouldn't be late to walk the distance to the dairy farm, where he would work outside all day.
That afternoon, walking home from school, Rosie said she heard a voice, “Who do you want to lose, your father or your brother?” As she got to this part of the tale, her face transformed into that of a grieving madonna, with confusion and pain she must have felt at that very moment so long ago. She said she the thought, and said outloud to us, in her characteristic way, “Ooo, I can’t choose between Pop and Carmen.'”
She didn’t have to.
When she got home, she found that Carmen had died that day (later they found of pneumonia). Rosie didn't say what that questioning voice she heard may have been: her conscience, her fears, her wishes to have family harmony, ESP, or even the prophetic voice of God. She just told the story, and we listened. I was stunned, trying to comprehend the effects of on the rest of the family, carried through a lifetime. Nothing was said in response to Rosie’s story that day about questioning voice. There was a silent moment when we all took in what she had shared and also to honor the memory of their lost brother. Then the mood, meaning and images evoked by Rosie slowly faded.
I had the sense that my father-in-law and the others had to ignore, at least outwardly, the implication that their father was as cruel as the facts of Rosie's story confirmed, and that his sister, as well as the other siblings may have been as deeply affected by their childhoods and the loss of a brother that could have been avoided.
What did it mean, I wondered, that the family never openly spoke to each other about the relationship of Carmen’s death to his having been forced to work on that bitter cold, last day of his young life. At the least, it meant that no blame was openly attributed in order to preserve the family mythology and to have avoided the open reckoning of it.
Whatever may have transpired after Carmen's death, I have no knowledge of, but I do know that people, in general often do not question the what, how and why of their lives (including myself) to avoid the pain, and maybe it is better that way in some cases. Still, I can only hope that there was also tenderness, love, and yes, the pain of remorse felt in the heart of the father, head of the household on Sixth Avenue— if not seen by others. Even if only brief moments of doubt before sleep, or upon waking--the way a small shaft of light and warmth edges its way into a dark room through a door left slightly ajar.
